CHAPTER FOUR

I was shipwrecked before I got aboard.

-Seneca, "Epistles"

D-160, At Sea, MV George Galloway

In the peculiar loneliness of a storm at sea, the ship plowed the waves. At the bow a white rush of foam lifted, split, and curled to each side. Astern, it left a faint trail of whitish water and cavitation bubbles, the trail soon disappearing under the twin influence of wave and mixing.

Above that trail was a name, in Latin letters. It would never have done to have given the ship any obviously Islamic name. In the paranoid world that was, all such were inherently suspicious. Still, let it not be said that the naval arm of Al Qaeda was completely lacking in a sense of humor. If they couldn't give the chartered ship a holy name, they could at least honor one of their foremost unholy allies in the west.

Of the workings of the ship itself, a mildly seasick Labaan had little clue, even though operating a small boat was certainly in his repertoire. Instead, while the other three remaining with the team alternated turns guarding the prisoner, well chained below inside a shipping container, with long sessions making obeisance to the sea over the side, Labaan searched the news for any indication that Adam's disappearance had been discovered. So far as he'd been able to determine, there'd been not a whisper. There were disappearances all the time, of course, so he'd had to use a fairly narrow set of search parameters. After several hours of trying, however, and scores upon scores of searches, he'd come up with precisely nothing.

So typical of the Yankees, he sighed, meaning New Englanders and New Yorkers, specifically, not Americans, in general, not to care about or report a crime in their backyard, while so desperate to fix all the ills of the world everywhere else.

Labaan logged off of one search engine and pulled up a purely spurious e-mail account. This one contained in the draft folder a passage from the Jewish Torah and Christian Bible, Isaiah 11:6. Ah, good, Asad has made it home safely.

Another message informed Labaan that the transfer of his men and cargo, scheduled to take place at Port Harcourt, Nigeria, was on time and fully prepared.

Be glad to get the boy off my hands, actually, when the time for that comes, Labaan thought. Though what he's in for . . . and he seemed like a pretty nice kid, too, the one time we talked, if a little too full of the nonsense his professors have been pouring into his head. Well, until I am relieved of responsibility, I can at least keep him healthy . . . and maybe even knock some of the silliness out.

***

A dim battery-powered lantern swung overhead, not so much bathing as lightly wiping with light the container in which Adam had awakened. He was certain of three things. He was on a ship; the rocking and swinging of the light told him as much. He was chained-literally chained, by the foot, like a slave-inside some kind of big metal box with corrugated floor, roof, and walls. And he was in very serious trouble.

No, I am certain of four things, he thought. I am also certain I am seasick. He reached out for a bucket they'd left for him and emptied the contents of his stomach into it.

Afterwards, he was able to think a little more clearly. Ransom? the boy wondered. My father would pay almost anything in ransom to get me back whole and sound. Not that I'm worth it, or would be if I weren't an only son. Somehow, though, I don't think this is a kidnapping for ransom. For one thing, while I can't be sure, the people who grabbed me struck me as Habar Afaan clan. The one who called himself "Labaan" surely was one.

When, the boy lamented, when will they learn that blood is no solution, that the answer is in forgetting ties of blood and seeing our common humanity?

And what will they want from me? Almost he laughed at himself. Me? Nothing; I've nothing to give or to take from. They wouldn't be grabbing me for ransom; their clan chief, Gutaale, is even more sticky fingered than my father, keeps even more concubines and still doesn't lack for money.

No, it's not going to be money they're after. They're going to use me to exert control over my father, to increase and improve the position of the Habar Afaan over the Marehan. I think that means they'll never let me go. Or never let all of me go anyway. I'm likely enough to lose an ear or a finger as proof they've got me and are willing to do anything to me.

Adam had the thought calmly, but then felt a sudden wave of fear and terror as the thought translated itself to a mental image. He could almost see the knife coming down on a trembling hand-his own-to slice off a finger, or flicking past his eyes to sever an ear from his head. For a moment, but only for a moment, he almost gave in to tears. He killed the tears with a self- and culture deprecating laugh.

We're as bad as the Arabs. Me and my brother against my cousin. Me, my brother, and my cousin against the stranger. Clan and tribe over all. Steal what you can for your own before another tribe steals it first. Or, as in my case, steal a member of another tribe. You can use him or her like a slave or, better still, use the slave to force his family to do your bidding.

God, why do you hate Africa so?

Then again, thought Labaan, there's really no reason to mutilate the boy. Surely his father knows that Gutaale is willing to even without being told or shown. I mean, okay, maybe if we have to produce proof beyond a video that we have him, we could send a finger or something. But I really don't think that will be necessary. I'll tell Gutaale as much.

Then again, I know what the chief is planning. At some point the head of the Marehan is going to balk. He has to. And then, I suppose, we'll have to send him a piece of his son, or his son a piece at a time, until old Khalid thinks better of it. Well, hopefully that won't be my job.

Labaan logged off of the ship's computer and stood up, yawning and stretching. I should probably sleep some. Before I do though, I'd best check on our passenger.

The moving steel bars that held the door in place shifted, lower sliding up and upper down, as a central handle turned. Adam braced himself for something really unpleasant. Unconsciously, he grasped his fingers together as if to shield them.

Instead of a man with a meat cleaver, though, Labaan walked in, unarmed and unaccompanied. Adam sensed there was someone unseen on the other side of the door.

Labaan glanced around the interior of the corrugated metal box, taking in the water jug, the tray of food, the thin-and none too clean at this point-blanket-covered mattress, and the bucket, bedpan, and piss bottle. It was a lot less trouble and risk to move those than to escort the captive several times a day to relieve himself.

"You are well, Adam of the Marehan?" Labaan asked.

Adam nodded, silently. Almost he'd blurted out that they'd never get away with this, that his disappearance would be reported, by Maryam the Ethiopian, if no one else.

But if they can disappear me, they could disappear her, too.

Instead of letting his mouth put his girlfriend in danger, Adam asked, "Where are you taking me?"

"From here to Port Harcourt, Nigeria. From there we'll be going by air to another place. You don't need to know where that is."

"But . . . why?"

Labaan remained genial when he answered, "You are young, boy; you are not stupid."

Adam gave off a deep sigh. "Fine, I know why. But what's the point of it? A little temporary advantage from my father? Eventually he's dead and I'm dead and things will reverse. This is a temporary advantage for your people-you are of the Habar Afaan, yes?-and nothing more."

"Everything is temporary advantage in Africa, Adam," Labaan said. "Everything. When things are crumbling around you, all you can hope for is temporary advantage. Shall the sailor, shipwrecked at sea, worry about the distant shore or about his own next stroke? About the forest in the distance or the piece of timber that can keep him afloat for now?"

"If he doesn't at least look for the shore," Adam countered, "he's unlikely to reach it."

The older man sighed then, countering, "And so are we, young Marehan, and so are we."

D-157, Bandar Qassim, Ophir

A fairly large, wooden, motorized dhow thumped lightly but regularly against the edge of the dock in the almost rectangular harbor. Well-armed and apparently disciplined guards patrolled the landward side, the breakwater, and the docks themselves. This late at night, the sounds of ground traffic were minimal, though off in the distance could be heard the sound of a marine engine, fitfully starting, over and over, and then choking off into silence. Waves rolled and they, too, could be heard whenever not drowned out by that apparently defective engine.

Light there was aplenty, for here, if nowhere else nearby, streetlights worked and the local power plant produced electricity to feed them. Even had there been neither, inside the dhow the boat's own batteries fed enough juice to keep the interior lights going, without a continuous need for the engines to run.

Seated, cross-legged, on a cushion on the lower deck, Gutaale's belly rested approximately on his lap. On the opposite side of the cabin sat a Yemeni, near in appearance to the chief of the Habar Afaan, and likewise with a not unimpressive gut. The Yemeni's hand rested lightly upon a closed laptop.

"Half in three days," Gutaale told the Yemeni, Yusuf ibn Muhammad al Hassan, "the other half on delivery." The sun had been up and high when the two had begun their haggling. It was only well after its setting that they'd agreed on a price within a tiny fraction of the initial offer. The fact was, both men enjoyed the haggling for its own sake.

"That's fine," Yusuf agreed. Once a price was set, the Habar Afaan had already proven himself a man of honor as far as payment went. He had, for example, already paid for the lease of the George Galloway and payment to its crew. Those payments Yusuf split with his business associates in al Qaeda, who leased and ran the ship he owned.

Yusuf, on the other hand, was a man of fairly narrow honor. Oh, he'd produce the arms. He was quite reliable that way. What he'd told nobody was that he also intended to provide better arms to the rivals of the Clan Habar Afaan. This would, of course, require the Habar Afaan to purchase still better arms from Yusuf. And so on. And if Yusuf and his associates had chartered to Gutaale's people a ship for a little kidnapping? Well, the Marehan needed but to ask, and produce the cash, and Yusuf would lease them as good a ship and crew or better. Same with al Qaeda, really. Though for them, to gain their trust, Yusuf had had to go far out of his way to create a prayer bump to indicate a piety he didn't remotely feel.

"You do understand," the Yemeni said, "I am only getting the things on a ship, a ship that will be poorly guarded, and that ship to the local waters. It is up to your maritime mujahadin to actually seize the ship and its cargo."

"Yes, of course," Gutaale agreed, with a confident shrug. "And the trainers will come?"

"About three weeks later," the Yemeni answered. "It will take you that long to get the equipment off-loaded and moved to where it can't be seized back again by the Russians." Should they try which, given the fracturing among them, and the degree to which one splinter answers as much to me as anyone, seems unlikely. But let the Habar Afaan think this is a more perilous enterprise than it really is. It helps keep the price up.

"I will also need . . . " Gutaale stopped speaking as the lights suddenly dimmed.

"Captain!" shouted the Yemeni. "Start the engines. The light is failing."

D-150, Bonny River, Nigeria

The nighttime lights of Port Harcourt, seen through the smoky haze of the town and reflecting off clouds above and in the distance, were nothing much, despite the nearly four million people who lived in or near the place. Less impressive still were the lights of Okrika, a suburb of the main town, and it was closer. No, what attracted the eye were the plumes of natural gas fires flaring to either side as the Galloway made its careful way up the river.

Labaan stood on the bridge with the ship's captain, the bridge crew, and Gheddi. The captain was speaking into a ship's telephone.

"The ambulance will meet us at dockside," the captain said. He hesitated before asking, "I know you are going to the airport, and not Port Harcourt Teaching Hospital. But if I might enquire . . . "

Labaan shook his head no. "Captain, what you don't know can't do you any harm." Turning to Gheddi, Labaan ordered, "Cousin, let us go prepare our charge for transportation."

Adam's clue that they'd entered a port or something, at least, not on the high seas, was that the lamp overhead had mostly stopped swinging. Of the subtle change in the tenor of the ship's engines he was not really aware. Mentally, he began preparing himself for fight and flight.

They'll have to unchain me, he thought. If we're near a port, or even a coastline, and if I can get free for ten seconds, I can leap overboard. I'm a good, well a decent, swimmer. I can be ashore and running like hell before they can catch me.

He thought he sensed footsteps outside. Sure enough, the steel rods that held the door in place began to slide. A thin, crack appeared, the flickering light that marked it faint, at best.

Make yourself meek, Adam, the boy told himself. Lull them, if you can. Maybe they'll be slack enough to give you your chance.

Within moments of the door opening, Adam knew there would be no chance. Labaan entered, followed by three more men. Only one of them, the one called "Gheddi," looked particularly hostile. The others, however, didn't look bored or slack. Over one shoulder, one of these carried a stretcher with straps attached.

Labaan had a hypodermic syringe in one hand. Holding it point up, he squeezed the plunger until a few drops leaked out. "This is a mix of an hallucinogen, a small admixture of an opiate, and arachidonic acid. It will not harm you permanently, though it will relax you even while making you see things that will not be there. It will also give you a fever. Will you cooperate or-" Labaan's head inclined to indicate the others "– will you have to be restrained?"

Meek, Adam reminded himself. If it doesn't matter here, it might still, later." He held out one arms and began to roll his sleeve.

"No," said Labaan. "I am sorry. This needs to go in your buttocks. Drop your trousers please."

***

The moon was up and shining through the smoke of the town as Gheddi and Abdi carried the insensate Adam down the ship's gangplank, one man at each end of the stretcher. The boy moaned incoherently, and thrashed a bit. Straps on the stretcher kept him in place.

At the foot of the gangplank sat an ambulance, white with an orange stripe that narrowed toward the front. The ambulance doors were open, a couple of white clad emergency medical technicians standing beside them. Neither lights nor sirens were active.

Labaan and the captain of the George Galloway had been chatting amiably by the brow. The captain would no more say what his next mission was than the African would. He did admit, "I have to pick up some people in Northern Ireland."

The two shook hands farewell. Labaan walked down the gangplank to join his men and his charge.

Once the boy was loaded, and the kidnapping party had joined him in the back of the ambulance, the lights came on and the siren began to whoop.